Chapter 9 Just One Truth
Just One Truth
Langston
Sweetheart.
The word slipped out of my mouth in the elevator, soft and easy, like it had been waiting in me all along.
And I meant it. Every part of it.
Sabrina has gotten under my skin in a way I can’t explain.
A way I don’t want to explain. I’m always in control—of the room, of the deal, of myself.
But with her? My grip is slipping. She’s chaos dressed in emerald fire, and every time she looks at me, I feel like I’m standing too close to the edge.
Seeing Elliott put his hands on her tonight… it flipped something inside me. Turned me inside out. I wanted to break him in half for even thinking he had the right. And then that kid at the front desk? The way his eyes dragged over her—like she was available, like she wasn’t already mine?
I could’ve rung his neck just for looking.
Possessive doesn’t begin to cover it.
I swipe the key card and push the suite door open, my hand automatically finding the small of her back as I guide her inside. I can’t seem to stop touching her when she’s around. A palm to her hip, her waist, the curve of her spine. Like I need the physical reminder she’s here. That she’s real.
And it pisses me off.
I clench my jaw, frustrated at myself, at her, at everything this is stirring up in me.
“Decide what you want for dinner,” I tell her, the words sharper than I mean them to be. “I’ve got calls to make.”
Her brows lift, but she doesn’t argue. She sits her bag down by the couch and starts looking over the room service menu.
I turn away before I can soften, before I can say something else I don’t mean to.
In the bedroom, I pull out my phone, sit on the edge of the bed, and stare at the blank screen.
No calls. No messages. Nothing waiting.
I don’t dial a damn thing.
Instead, I sit there pretending to work while every thought in my head circles back to the woman in the other room—my wife.
And the truth I don’t want to admit, even to myself.
I don’t just want to protect her.
I want her.
All of her.
The silence in the bedroom is deafening.
I’m staring at my phone like it’s going to magically ring, like some call is going to save me from the fact that my head won’t stop replaying her voice. That quiet little “You” she whispered in the elevator when I asked what she was nervous about.
Me.
I scrub a hand down my face. I should feel in control here. A hotel suite, a woman who legally bears my name, a situation I engineered into existence. Control is what I do. It’s who I am.
But she’s unraveling me thread by thread without even trying.
Through the crack in the door, I hear the rustle of paper. She’s probably curled on the couch right now, deciding between pasta or steak, acting like she hasn’t just turned my world inside out.
And God, I want to go out there. To sit across from her and ask about every detail of her life—what makes her laugh, what keeps her awake at night, why she looks at me like I’m both a lifeline and a threat.
Instead, I’m here. Hiding like a coward behind a blank phone screen, pretending to work while she hums softly to herself, unaware I’m listening.
I push to my feet, shove the phone back in my pocket, and pace the room. I can’t sit here while she’s out there, softening the edges of this night without me.
I need to be near her.
Even if all I do is sit beside her and pretend like I’m not dying to touch her again.
When I step back into the suite, she’s curled into the corner of the couch, her legs tucked under her, menu balanced across her lap. She looks so out of place here—like the luxury hasn’t touched her at all. She could be anywhere, in any room, and still look like the most dangerous thing in it.
She glances up when she hears me. “Finished with your phone calls?”
I nod, ignoring the fact that my phone hasn’t buzzed once. “Yeah.”
“Good,” she says, flipping the menu closed. “Because I’m starving.”
There’s something in her tone—lighter, easier than the tension we’ve been carrying since the courthouse. It pulls me closer before I can stop myself.
I drop into the armchair opposite her. “Order whatever you want.”
She smirks. “Dangerous thing to say to a girl who loves dessert first.”
“Then order dessert first.”
Her brows lift. “Really?”
I lean back, stretching out my legs, letting my gaze sweep over her. “Sweetheart, if that’s what you want, then that’s what you’ll have.”
Her eyes soften, and she fiddles with the edge of the menu like she’s trying not to smile.
Sweetheart.
The word hangs between us again, heavier this time. I don’t tell her how natural it felt, how much I meant it. Because I've never called anyone that. Not women. Not lovers. No one.
But it fits her. It is her.
And that terrifies me.
I clear my throat and nod toward the table. “Let’s make a deal. You order the food, but we play a game while we wait.”
Suspicion flickers across her face. “What kind of game?”
“Question for question. You answer one, then I do.”
She narrows her eyes. “And if I don’t like your question?”
“Then you lie. But I’ll know.”
Her lips twitch. “Confident, aren’t you?”
I let a small smile tug at my mouth. “Always.”
She rolls her eyes but sets the menu down. “Fine. You start.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
She blinks. “That’s easy.”
“Start easy,” I say. “We’ll work our way up.”
She thinks for a second, then smiles softly. “Green. Like spring. Like the trees in Chicago right before summer when they’re bright and fresh and alive.”
I file the answer away like it’s vital intelligence. “Green,” I repeat. “Figures.”
“Figures?” she echoes, suspicious.
“Matches your eyes.”
She looks away too quickly, pretending to adjust the menu again. “Your turn. Favorite color?”
“Black.”
“That’s not a color.”
“It is when you’re me.”
She laughs—short and genuine. The sound rattles me in a way I don’t admit.
Her cheeks are still pink when she says, “Okay. Next one… favorite food?”
“Steak. Medium rare.”
She groans. “Predictable.”
I smirk. “Yours?”
“French fries,” she says immediately. “With way too much salt.”
I chuckle. “Of course.”
We volley back and forth for a while—favorite movie, favorite drink, first concert. She gets dramatic telling me about sneaking into a show with her sister. I admit to hating musicals and she gasps like I just committed a crime.
It’s easy. Too easy.
And I’m letting my guard down.
So I shift gears.
“Who was that man tonight?”
The air changes instantly.
Her smile fades, her whole body stiffening like a string pulled too tight.
“Elliott,” she says finally, the name clipped, bitter.
Her voice alone tells me she hates saying it.
I lean forward, forearms braced on my knees. “Who is he to you?”
She hesitates. Long enough to make my pulse tick faster.
Her fingers twist together in her lap. She won’t look at me. “Someone I used to know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’m giving you right now.”
The finality in her tone hits me square in the chest.
I don’t like it.
I don’t like the way her shoulders curl inward, like she’s bracing herself. I don’t like the shadow that slipped across her face when I said his name. I don’t like that she’s hiding something from me when all I want to do is drag the truth out into the open.
Because what I saw back there? That wasn’t just discomfort. That was history.
And I want to burn it down.
I force my voice lower, gentler. “Sweetheart—”
“Don’t,” she cuts me off. Her eyes finally lift to mine, and they’re sharper than glass. “Not tonight.”
I sit back slowly, muscles tight.
Every part of me wants to push. To demand answers. To remind her she’s mine now, and that means her past doesn’t get to walk back into her life without me knowing exactly why.
But she looks fragile at this moment—fragile in a way that’s dangerous for both of us.
And if I push too hard, I’ll break something I can’t fix.
So I nod once, swallowing the storm in my chest. “Not tonight.”
Her shoulders ease, just barely.
The silence stretches, and I let it.
Because one way or another, I’ll get the truth.
I always do.
But right now?
Right now, I’ll let her have the illusion of space.
Even if the thought of Elliott knowing anything about her—touching her, speaking to her, remembering her—makes my blood boil.
I’ll wait.
For tonight.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow, he and I are going to have a problem.